


Something About Mushrooms...

by Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders would like to go back to bed, Fenris is tripping balls, Gen, Hallucinogens, Purple Hawke is a little too purple, magic mushrooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Mav's fault. I'm not even sorry. </p><p>Fenris decides to put the floor-mushrooms to use. Unfortunately, he misjudges quite what kind of mushrooms he's dealing with. Mayhem ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mages Are To Blame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaverikLoki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am expecting this to be two or three chapters? Here. Have an intro... I need to have a timeskip right quick.

There were a multitude of things that Hawke and Anders had said to him, and why he was listening to the mages, he did not know, but it all came to him at once, in some half-cocked ingenious idea. The pools of wine, blood, and puréed organ meats scattered across the front hall had, in time, dried, decayed, and begun to grow mushrooms. Mushrooms that were, as best he could recall, of an edible variety. Several edible varieties, now that he looked at them. Except those blue ones; those were poisonous. He'd hang on to them anyway. Hawke could probably turn them into something useful.

Principally, though, he could both clean the floor and fill the pantry, effectively shutting them both up. Two mages with one mushroom run, and he didn't even have to leave the house.

Fenris scavenged a few unbroken pots and urns from the remains of the kitchen, wiping them out and lining them up along the wall. One for each kind of mushroom he was sure he'd seen, and one more, just in case. For a few hours, he wandered through the house, one or two urns at a time, harvesting mushrooms from the decay. The more he looked, the more he was almost willing to admit the mages might be right. It had once been a fairly nice place, and it would likely be at least slightly more pleasant, if it didn't reek of fresh earth and dead blood. Still, he'd gotten used to it. It was his house, and it could reek of death if he wanted it to. All the same, that carpet had to go.

These were the mushrooms he'd forgotten, here in this back room, with the decaying, damp, blood-soaked Nevarran carpet. He kept the door shut, to keep the stench out of the rest of the house. That carpet had gone from unsalvageable to actively destructive, in the years the door had been closed, and Fenris's eyes watered as he scavenged what mushrooms could be gotten, before throwing open a window and shovelling as much of the pooling decay out of it, as he could, using the back of a chair. Okay, maybe... _maybe_ he'd ask the abomination for something to get the reek off the stone.

He fled the room, leaving the window open, and bringing the mushrooms back to the hall. Who knew so many edible things would rise from the flesh of dead men? He wondered at it, kicking broken tiles back into open spaces in the floor. The stench hung with him.

Maybe it was time, then. The carpets were all worthless, now, stained and eaten through, where Hawke hadn't set them on fire, in that grand battle. Maybe it was time to scrape everything battered, worthless, and dead onto the rugs and into the crates from the cellar, and just throw it out the back. He was sure Hawke would be happy to burn it, later, pyromaniac mage that he was. And in that, everything that was his own tainted mark on this place would be gone. Would it wash out of him, as well? He had nothing left. His sister disowned, his filthy master dead, his questions answered in ways that made him wish he hadn't asked. Nothing but these two mages who kept swearing they were his friends, and their assortment of ribald, thieving companions.

What if he just... washed it all away and became a lutenist, or something? He couldn't possibly be worse than Anders. _Nothing_ could be worse than Anders, when it came to music. The mage couldn't carry a tune if it had a handle. Fenris was pretty sure he couldn't even cast a spell for musical accompaniment, if he had the instructions in a picturebook.

What he could find of the floor tiles had fallen into place, and the room had a hint of ease it hadn't, before. Ease, repose, how much simpler would it be to detect a thing out of place, when all things were not purposely displaced? To smell trouble, without having to find it under the stench of death?

Food in the pantry, and a lack of blood and broken glass on the floor... What a peculiar idea. Well, he might put the glass back, after he cleaned. There was something to be said for idiot-proofing the front hall. Still, he carried the mushrooms back into the kitchen, stacking the urns on a stone worktop, and went back with a bucket, to pour water down the stairs. With a rusty battleaxe and a bent shield, he scraped the remains of guards and broken pottery off the floor, slopping the filth into a few crates. The smell became, if anything, worse.

This was why he didn't clean, he assured himself. This... foulness. Grabbing a broom, he chased the water toward the door and out, before going back to rinse the floor again. It was, honestly, a nice pattern, now that he could make it out. But, everything still stank of wet corpse. Corpse was bad. Decaying corpse was worse. But, nothing compared to rehydrated, freshly-moved, partially-decomposed eau de corpse. Quite literally, actually. And he was standing in it. Barefoot.

This, of course, was intolerable and infuriating, and the sweeping began in earnest, tides of filthy water slopping toward the open door. Fantastic. He had mushrooms, a clean floor, and a house that stank of death all over again. Fuck this. If the mages wanted it clean, the mages could clean it. He'd let them. And he'd sit back and drink wine and be delightfully unpleasant about the whole affair. 

He added 'washing the floor' to the list of bad ideas he'd been talked into by mages -- getting lyrium tattoos, freeing his family, killing the Fog Warriors, not killing his sister, and washing the floor, along with a host of lesser offences, that may or may not have included mushroom wine, which might have been Varric's doing, but somehow it was Hawke's fault _anyway_.

Fenris chased the last of the water toward the door, sweeping it out of the corners and the divets that were still missing tiles. It would take days for this to dry, here in humid Kirkwall by the sea. For a moment, he debated moving to a nice inland village, in Antiva. Warm, dry Antiva...

But, no. He had made promises, even where he had said no words, and he was bound to the fate of Kirkwall, for now. Foul, wet Kirkwall, where the stink of fish clung to everything. It was less bad in Hightown, at least, and the stench of death _did_ keep the stink of fish out of his house. And the death stench would go, once the floor dried, he told himself. He would talk to Anders -- no, he would talk to _Varric_ about some sweet herbs, and imply something about women. And then Varric would talk to the abomination _for him_. He tidied the corpses, upstairs, but made no further attempts to wash the floor.

At last, he approached the kitchen, which was in no shape to support its original intended purpose. Of course, considering all he had in it was nine kinds of mushrooms, that might not be as much of an issue as it seemed. Still, if he meant to convince himself that eating anything that came out of this room was a good idea, it might do to at least clean a worktop and some dishes. Maybe he could convince the abomination to cook for him, again, if he could offer a space in which cookery might be committed. He was certain that cookery was something one committed, rather than just did. He'd watched Orana put together meals -- just checking to make sure Hawke was treating her right -- and it seemed to be the sort of thing one devoted a lifetime to the study of, like assassination or burglary, both of which were definitely commits. And so, he would clean the kitchen, in the hopes of convincing the abomination to commit cookery for him.

Later. After he ate something, maybe had a few glasses of wine, and waited, upstairs, for the death stench to dissipate a little more. There were an abundance of mushrooms, after all, and those didn't need to be cooked. These were the ones Danarius had liked in soup, he thought. The ones he'd never been allowed to eat. And those were the ones he'd been eating since he crossed into the Marches. He'd eat the ones he knew he liked, and one of the Master's, just to spite his cold corpse. He didn't even know if he liked those, yet, and it would be stupid to try to fill up on them, if they were terrible. Mushrooms and wine, something of a victory meal, he supposed. A bottle of some Tevinter vintage and the Master's soup mushroom, which, given Danarius, was probably going to be some unspeakably vile delicacy that was only considered suitable for the nobility because of the strength of will it took not to spit it across the table. Fenris had noticed some trends in that regard with the dishes of the high and mighty: wyvern liqueurs, live birds, turtle-penis soup... Hopefully the good mushrooms and the wine would be enough to dull the taste, if he were right. It would be worth it, either way, just to get that satisfaction of having done something he was so long forbidden. _Like ramming yourself into--_ He adjusted his leggings and pushed the abomination out of his mind, taking his bowl of mushrooms upstairs, to relax by the fire while he ate.


	2. There Are No Giant Spiders in Hightown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris creeps the shit out of himself, blames mages.

He had been correct. The mushroom was some vile delicacy of Tevinter, and it tasted like spoilt milk with a hint of dirt. Still, he choked the thing down and rinsed his mouth out with wine. The other mushrooms were, as usual, boring, but edible, and he started to relax, stretched out before the fire, studying the cracks in the ceiling.

The first sign that something was wrong was when the ceiling moved away, like the walls had gotten taller. How far was that? He didn't remember the ceiling being that high in this room, and he'd been looking at it for a good twenty minutes, at least. Probably just because he was tired. Or because he'd inadvertently unleashed poisonous gasses by shovelling all that corpse-goo off the floor. He blamed the mages. It was their fault he'd even tried.

And that was when he felt something crawling up his arm. He swatted at it, but ... missed? No, he'd hit right where it was, it was just still moving. 

No, no, no. No spiders. This was not spiders.

He turned his head and... nothing. But, the lyrium in his arm had started to glow along one particular path. That was what he felt. But, why--

"Anders? If you're leaving muddy footprints in my clean hall, abomination, I'll beat you until they're bloody footprints."

Fenris was on his feet so quickly that, had anyone been watching, they might have suspected magic. Or a werecat. He stalked out onto the landing, silently, but the hall was empty. At least, he thought it was empty until the shadows began to move. _Shades!? Here!?_ But, every time he tried to focus on one, it wasn't there.

Poison gas, he decided, shaking his head. He'd open all the windows and sleep by the fire. That should help. But, perhaps, going outside to clear his head first, while the rooms cleared out, would be a better idea. That was a better plan, he concluded, throwing open windows along the back of the house. If nothing else, it would get the death-stench out faster.

The death-stench he'd stopped smelling, at some point. That wasn't right. He knew that wasn't right, familiar as he was with decay. This was maybe a little worse than he'd initially thought, but he was still upright, so it was probably recoverable. He was still going to throw Hawke down those nice, clean marble stairs. Wash the fucking floor. Venhedis. He huffed to himself, as he hauled himself out a window and onto the roof. Fucking mages. He had to stop listening to the mages.

The air was fresh and cool, and the moon was bright. A beautiful night to be outside, really, if not necessarily one he'd meant to spend on a broken tiled roof. Shadows coiled and writhed in the pits where the tile had fallen away, but none of them would resolve into anything he could identify or fight off. Just pools of slithering blackness with the occasional staring eye that would blink out as soon as he looked straight at it. In the corners of his vision, revenants and wraiths rose over the edges of the roof. And the lyrium lines lit themselves in dizzying patterns, chasing across his body like thousands of tiny feet under his skin.

It was just the poison gas from the corpses, he told himself. He was dizzy from the stench and seeing things. It would pass in a few minutes, in the fresh air. He just kept telling himself that, as the lines of light flickered across his skin and parts of his body phased in and out. He would kick Hawke down the stairs on one side and the abomination down the stairs on the other side. He'd barely even have to move. It was a strangely soothing thought, and he clung to it, as the phantoms grew bolder.

The sky spun above him, and the shadows crept closer, all eyes and tentacles, staring and coiling, slithering and gazing. He'd seen some shit, in his day, having been a magister's bodyguard, but this was new and terrifying. He respected that. It took quite a lot to creep him out, and this was succeeding admirably. He was relatively sure it wasn't real, still, but he couldn't figure out why it wasn't getting any _better_ since he'd come outside. He was sure that getting out of the house, away from whatever gasses he'd released by trying to _wash things_ would help, but if anything, things were just getting worse.

None of it was real. He could wait it out. Still, the roof might not be the wisest place to wait out something that was screwing with his vision. He inched back toward the roof's edge, feeling for gaps and broken tiles, and the staring shadow-tentacles followed. Looking at them no longer turned them away, he noticed, as if the longer this went on, the less likely he became to reject it, outright, and that had its own terrifying implications.

He swung over the edge of the roof and back through the window, landing a little less quietly than he might've liked, as he thoroughly misjudged the distance to the floor. The house reeked of death, again, which was almost comforting, all things considered, but the voices of the dead singing from the crates of bones was not. He told himself it was the wind. It had to be the wind, because dead men didn't sing. Undead men might, but if they were undead, he'd have noticed long before now.

And then it was his sister's voice, singing to him, and the tune wrapped itself around his bones, the words sinking in, burning cold where they settled. A children's song, he thought, not that he spent much memorable time around children. But, she sang to him, called to him through the years, the betrayals, the deaths between them, and this was unacceptable. It was _her_. Every bone in his body rang with her voice, and he knew her as they had once been, before all of this. The sister he had wanted to save, not the monster he had created, trying.

No. None of this was real. Not the singing, not the eyes in the shadows, not the tentacles of darkness winding around his legs, or the thousand-legged fiend that raced along his tattoos. _Had_ he poisoned himself? Did he maybe break some ward that had lain all these years under the filth, and unleash some magical nightmare on himself? The abomination would know. But, that would mean two things that didn't sound like good ideas -- getting through Darktown and involving a mage. On the other hand, staying here in the house of increasingly creepy shit didn't sound like the brightest idea, either. The hour was too late to find a messenger lurking in this part of town, so that was out. If he was going, he'd have to go, himself.

He knew how to find the clinic. He could do it in his sleep. If what he'd been told was true, he _had_ done it in some fairly questionable states. However weird things got, he could probably get there. The question was whether the-- whether _Anders_ would be there at this hour, rather than pinned to a convenient flat surface, somewhere, under Hawke. Hawke was the last person he wanted to see, right now, although Isabela might actually be worse.

At the worst, he'd be stuck in Darktown with the increasingly creepy shit, and at least Anders would _find him_ , if he made it to the clinic. It couldn't be much worse than being stuck up here, with the same shit. People were much more likely to conveniently overlook bizarre behaviour and sudden loud noises, in Darktown.

Hadn't he decided to _stop_ listening to the mages? Why was he going to go put this in the hands of a mage?

Right. Because he didn't know any other healers he could wake up in the middle of the night, because he accidentally poisoned himself while _washing the floor_. He could kick Hawke down the stairs later, he reminded himself, picking up the cloak he nearly never wore, and assuring himself it really wasn't a darkspawn-tainted wolf, as he pulled it across his shoulders. There weren't wolves in Hightown. There sure as shit weren't wolves in his house. And that, the last time he picked it up, had been his cloak, so that was absolutely not a wolf. _Not a wolf._

He snarled and slammed the door behind him, as he left, the echo off the stone inset that held the door degrading into an insectile chittery-clacky sound.

There were no giant spiders in Hightown. Not even in Hawke's cellar. Nope.

He ducked into an alley and dropped himself into the sewers, below, as he'd done dozens of times before. He could get there from here. He could get there from here, with his eyes closed.


	3. Get the Fuck Out of Bed, Abomination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darktown is less scary, when you're tripping so hard no one will come near you. On the other hand, the healer is a whole lot more terrifying when you can't seem to control your mouth.
> 
> This is apparently going to another chapter. Whoops. One more, for the morning.

The journey through Darktown was exactly the sort of thing no sane man would undertake at this hour, but Fenris was pretty sure he'd checked his sanity sometime around when he first picked up a broom. The cloak mostly concealed him from casual notice, but the sudden flashes of lyrium-light from beneath it at once drew attention and warded off those of ill-intent. Nobody felt the need to attempt to mug a man who seemed to be some Fade-powered avenging spirit, blue-lit and snarling at ghosts.

Finally, there was the sign. He ran his fingers over it, to be sure, and when his hands agreed with his eyes, he banged on the door. 

"Healer!" he called.

"Please be awake, please be here, please be awake, please--" he muttered under his breath.

The door clattered and swung open. "I have a name, Fenris. And I don't smell blood. What are you doing here?"

"You don't want me shouting your name to half of Darktown, in the middle of the night. You never know who might be listening," Fenris reasoned, clinging to the door frame. "I suspect I may be poisoned."

"Poisoned? You?" Anders stepped back from the door, clearly having been in the middle of getting to bed, a thick, woollen robe covering from just under his chin to his ankles. "Picking fights with spiders, again?"

"Don't... talk about the spiders. If you speak of them, they may appear." Fenris entered the room much more cautiously than was usual for him, and locked the door behind him. "I believe I may have triggered an old ward or a poison gas trap."

"Where?" Anders asked, pulling out a chair and gesturing for Fenris to sit.

"In my house." Fenris removed his cloak, draping it over the chair before he sat.

"That doesn't make any sense. Start at the beginning. I need to know what we're dealing with." Anders watched the elf, curiously.

"If you must know, I tried to wash the floor. Hawke has been... particularly irritating, of late." Fenris glared, daring Anders to laugh.

Anders scratched the stubble on his cheek, covering his mouth as he desperately tried to contain that laugh.

"I scraped the remains into some empty crates and threw water on what remained. Then I swept the water into the street." Fenris shrugged and slapped his arm as his tattoos lit up again. "There were also mushrooms, nine kinds, three I recognised. I put the nugbane aside for you, obviously. I ate some of the march-meats -- I know those. I have eaten a great deal of march-meats since I arrived in the Marches. And the third, I don't know what it's called, but it's a Tevinter delicacy of some kind. My master used to have soup made with them. I ate one. They're terrible, as one would expect from a nobleman's food."

Anders blinked and moved toward a cabinet, taking down some herbs to make tea. "Tell me about the Tevinter mushroom. What did it look like?"

He had a sinking suspicion...

"Something between a bell and a parasol. Blue-green at the top, whitish-yellow around the base of the cap. Sort of slimy-looking."

Anders flicked his wrist to heat the water, and Fenris flinched. "You ate only one? Did you cook it?"

"No, I didn't cook it. I don't cook." Fenris squirmed and glared nervously into the darkness in the back of the room. "The shadows have eyes. It's really quite unpleasant."

"I know what happened." Anders pressed a warm cup into Fenris's hand. "Drink that. It won't make it stop, but it should make it less unpleasant."

As Fenris cautiously tasted the tea, Anders threw himself into a chair that creaked with the impact. "Those mushrooms? Those are maker's tears. You're lucky you only ate one."

Fenris shook his head, still confused. "Maker's tears?"

"Right. You're not a mage. They're used to boost magical talents and increase lyrium sensitivity. And they're always _cooked_ , to dampen the effects." The look on Anders's face was much less a grin than a grimace. "And you've got enough lyrium in your body to poison a high dragon."

As if responding to a summons, the lines lit up again, and Fenris nearly dropped his tea slapping at them. "They itch."

"Drink your tea. I'll see if I can find a salve that won't react badly with lyrium." Anders stood and crossed to another cabinet. "Talk to me about something else. Tell me something you want, something you like..."

"I want this to stop, so I can go to sleep," Fenris complained. "This is all Hawke's fault. And yours."

"My fault? I'm not the one hassling you about your mushroom-covered floor!" Anders flipped through a book, with one hand, tapping across jars of herbs, with the other.

"You and your 'food in the pantry' nonsense. I wouldn't have been eating mushrooms, if it weren't for you." Fenris gulped the rest of the tea, almost enjoying the way the minty aftertaste seemed to wind through his head, like some pleasing vine.

"No, you're not sprouting leaves," Anders remarked, drily.

"Did I say that out loud?" Fenris was suddenly mortified.

"You're a little lyrium-addled. You'll be doing that for a while, yet. Don't worry about it." Anders went about his work, crushing leaves into a thick paste he could mix with a little wax and a lot of lard.

"What else have I said?" Fenris demanded.

"Nothing much. Eyes in the shadows, spiders in your skin. You'll be fine. You only ate one." Setting a bowl on the table, Anders began to mix the salve. "I'm not telling Hawke. I'm not even telling Hawke this happened. If you're still here, in the morning, I'm telling Hawke you cut yourself cleaning, and you were worried about an infection."

"Must you mention the cleaning?"

"From the sound of it, it's going to be hard to _hide_ the cleaning," Anders pointed out.

Fenris leapt onto his chair with both feet, pointing into the darkness in the next room. "Rev-- no, you'd have noticed it, if it were."

"Revenants, now?" Anders pushed the bowl across the table. "Here, rub this into the tattoos. It should numb your skin."

"Thank you." Fenris usually found himself somewhat humbled to be on the receiving end of the abomination's seemingly infinite kindness, when it came to strange medical issues and gaping wounds. He might even be bearable, if that kindness extended beyond the walls of the clinic, but there was that whole abomination thing, and the shouty demon of vengeance. Why were the ones he actually wanted to like always the most fucked up?

"As charming as it is that you want to like me, you might want to ensure your lips are touching each other, while you finish putting that on," Anders pointed out. "Also, it's not that we're the most fucked up, it's just that we're the only ones you look at closely enough to notice."

"You're all mages. You're all fucked up beyond salvation. Why I even bother is beyond me," Fenris grumbled.

"This from the man who just thanked me. I see how it is." Anders sat on the edge of the table. "Tell me about the perfect world. Don't tell me what you don't want in it. Just tell me what you do."

"That seems like a waste of breath."

"It'll make you stop seeing revenants."

Fenris looked up, startled. "I want a place that's warm and dry. Sunny and bright, with orchards and vinyards, as far as the eye can see. I want it not to matter that I'm an elf. I want my skin to be my own."

He let his head fall back and slumped in the chair, nearly sliding out of it. "I want apple tarts for breakfast, every day, sweet and sour and spiced. Do you smell that?"

"No, but you do. Keep talking." Anders got up, quietly and crossed the room. "I'm going to make some more tea. Do you want an apple, while I'm up?"

"Baked?" Fenris asked, hopefully.

"I can fake it. Spiced?"

"You would do that for me?"

"I would do that for me. You're making me hungry, and it's no more effort to do it twice than once."

Fenris snorted and actually slid out of the chair, cracking the back of his head on the seat. "...I think I am going to stay down here. It seems safer."

A pillow landed on his face. "Don't leave your head on the floor. You'll regret it."

"Yes, this seems much softer." Fenris tucked the pillow under his head and studied the ceiling of the clinic, watching flowering vines wind across the rough-hewn surface. "Vines. A definite improvement on revenants."

"Told you it would help." Anders crouched and placed another cup of tea and a dish with a warm, spice-packed apple next to Fenris. "You might have to sit up a little. Don't pour hot tea on your face. The scalding wouldn't help your complexion or your demeanor."

Fenris grabbed Anders's hand. "Mage. Healer... Thank you."

The abomination seemed to glow with an inner light, and not his usual blazing blue one. A calming, golden glow hovered just beneath his skin, Fenris was certain, and wonder lit his face as he studied the mage he so often derided.

"You... glow."

Anders checked, just in case. "No, that's just you. Still, better than revenants, right?"

"Apples and vines and a healer made of the Maker's light? I think that's better than revenants, any day." Fenris finally found the strength to let go of Anders and stuff his face with a chunk of apple. Maybe if he ate, he'd stop talking.

"Made of the Maker's light? That's a new one. I'm holding on to that one." Anders lifted himself into a chair, to his own tea and apple. "I'm still not telling Hawke."

"Good," Fenris muttered around a mouthful of apple. "He'd never believe it."

"If he wouldn't believe it," Anders teased, "why would it matter if I told him?"

"It doesn't matter if he believes it. He'll still use it. And then it'll end up in one of Varric's damnable books, and we'll never be rid of it."

"Rid of it? I rather liked it. I think it's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said about me, even if you did have to be hallucinating to say it."

"There's something extremely sad about that entire sentence, Anders." ' _Anders_ ', this time. Not 'abomination' or 'mage'.

"The part where someone might think you were sweet on me, if I were ever stupid enough to let on, in public?" Anders sipped his tea and watched Fenris's eyes cross.

"For the thirty-twelfth time, abomination, I am not sweet on you. Why does it always come back to this?"

"Not always. Only when there's no-one to hear it." Anders shrugged. "Maybe I just like your face, when I say it."

"Maybe I'll just punch you in the face, next time you say it," Fenris grumbled.

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to apologise and ask you not to? Because that's not going to happen." Anders laughed. "Eat your apple and tell me about the perfect world."

"...I'm a snow-covered mountain with skiers on me," Fenris muttered, before slapping madly at his face and groping for the salve.

"If that were true, I'd be home again," Anders joked, handing Fenris the bowl, once he stopped flailing.

They stared at each other, strangely, for a long moment.

"Your perfect world. Not mine." Fenris rubbed the salve into his face and visibly relaxed as it began to soak in. "I would have a family. Parents and siblings, maybe I'd be an uncle. They'd be tradesmen and merchants, and maybe I'd be a guardsman. I could be a guardsman."

"You'd be good at it, mostly," Anders agreed.

"Mostly?" Fenris squinted uncertainly.

"As long as you didn't cross paths with any mages."

"I would live in a world where mages weren't power-hungry raving assholes with no redeeming qualities," Fenris snapped.

"But, you wouldn't choose a world with no mages."

"I... no. You're right. I wouldn't."

That hung between them, for a while, as they ate.

"There's a world, somewhere, where we're friends, mage," Fenris mumbled into his tea, watching currents of air swirl little white flowers along the floor.

"Make it this one," Anders suggested.

"No. Not while you've got that... _demon_ in you."

"He's not a--"

"Whatever."

"So, you don't have a problem with me, you have a problem with Justice." Anders prodded, unwilling to let this be.

"No, I have a problem with you, too. Just _less_ of a problem." Fenris thought back on how many mistakes he'd made, and how many of them would have been so much worse, had he been a mage. A mage, _this mage_ , was a man like any other, but a hundred times more dangerous in moments of weakness.

"Take that back. You would have killed your own sister, if we hadn't stopped you."

"I know I didn't say that. My mouth wasn't open."

"You had that look on your face."

"I'd feel better about the world if I had killed her."

"But, would you feel better about yourself?"

"... No." Fenris squinted up, somewhat belligerently. "What does it matter what I think of myself, if the world is a better place?"

"Well, if it doesn't matter what you think of yourself, then I think you have to stop giving Hawke a hard time about his mother."

And, suddenly, everything shifted -- flowers and vines giving way to shadows with eyes. Fenris rolled to his feet, eyes wide. "Behind y--"

"It isn't real. Have some tea." Anders reached back and waved his hand behind his head, passing it through what looked like an arcane horror. "If it were real, whatever you're seeing, I'd have lost a hand, which, I assure you, I haven't."

"I-- I can't--" Fenris crouched, taut, twitching, fingers fluttering and clawing at his palms.

"Calm down, or you'll black out, and that'll give you a hell of a headache," Anders warned. "Drink some tea. Lie down. Get comfortable. Let me worry about the monsters, tonight."

"Stop looking at me like that!" Fenris snapped, squeezing his eyes shut and reaching for the tea. "I don't need your _pity_."

"It's not pity. Look again."

"...No," Fenris sighed. "No. Just stop."

"How about I just glare at you in annoyance?"

"I'd like that."

"You're such a pain in my ass, Fenris." Anders stood up and offered his arm. "Come here. You're taking my bed. You need to stop standing up, before one of us gets hurt."

"Isn't your bed cramped and lumpy?" Fenris held out his hand and edged toward Anders until he made contact.

"It's the most comfortable flat surface you'll find in all of Darktown, so unless you want to walk home, you'll take it."

"I'll take it," Fenris conceded, at last, letting Anders lead him into the back.

"You get comfortable. I'm just going to grab something to put stuff on. Like my ass. I need something to put my ass on." Anders yawned and lit a lamp, snapping in its general direction.

"I never see you do things like that."

"I'm too tired to be pissing around with the wick and the firestarter, at this point." Anders rubbed his face and stumbled back out to get the tea, the salve, and a chair.

"I got you out of bed, didn't I?"

"Yeah, Fenris, you did. And now you're in my bed, and I'm not." Anders set the chair beside the bed, piled with necessities. "Chamber pot's over there. Tell me if you need it. You're not getting up again, in this condition. Especially not near my chamber pot."

"I can see where that might end poorly," Fenris admitted. "Mage -- Anders, tell me about your perfect world. I think I poisoned mine."

Anders tossed a blanket over the elf in his bed and grabbed another chair, putting his feet up on the edge of the bed as he sat down. Reaching under the bed, he pulled out another blanket and wrapped it around himself.

"My perfect world? Self-sustaining communes, embracing all the arts of man, trading with each other for necessarily foreign goods. A world in which every man is judged by his actions, and not the potential actions of 'people like that'. A world with no slaves. A world in which you and I couldn't have come to be. A world that doesn't need us and couldn't make us."

"You speak of us equally."

"I believe it. We're functionally equivalent victims of a corrupt system that needs to come down. We're just on opposite ends of it."

Fenris smiled warmly as something serpentine and blue wound out of the shadows and coiled brightly along the walls. "You're crazy, mage."

"I know. I'm still right."

"You're still _glowing_. It's... unsettling." Fenris rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket up.

"That's all you. I guarantee I am not lit up at all, and if I was, it would be blue."

"How offensive would it be if I bought you a bed, once I can see well enough to get out of this one? Something better-built, maybe with a little spring to it and less lumps."

"I wouldn't be offended. You know, Hawke never even offered." Anders reached for a cup of tea. "It might strongly imply you meant to spend more time in my bed, though, so you might want to watch that."

"An anonymous donation, then, by way of Lirene. For your assistance and your continued silence, on the subject," Fenris muttered into his blanketed hands.

"You don't have to bribe me. I wouldn't tell Hawke, anyway. I already said I wouldn't tell Hawke."

"Fasta vass. It's not a bribe. Just take the fucking thing," Fenris demanded, crossly.

"...You're welcome, Fenris." Anders sounded amused.

"I'd like that to continue to be the case. And you're our healer. What good is a healer who isn't sleeping well?" Fenris considered that for a moment. "A lot of good, apparently, but how much better is a healer who's slept well?"

"Sounds like you'll be funding that research."

"Fucking right I am." Fenris banged a fist on the edge of the chair with the tea on it. "I'll even clean my kitchen, so you can exercise your Orlesian cooking skills in it. You'd commit cookery for me, wouldn't you, mage?"

"If you stop calling me 'mage', and it keeps you from eating any more questionable mushrooms, I'd seriously consider it." Anders slipped his feet under the corner of the blanket, and Fenris glared. "Hey, you're in _my bed_ , that I got out of to help you, and my feet are cold."

"Fine."

"And you're asking me to cook for you."

"My feet aren't any warmer than yours, you know."

"In case you ever wondered why I spend so much time at Hawke's, these days..."

"I can think of at least fifteen other reasons, most of them things I would be happier never to have thought of at all, but they do seem to have made the walls prettier."

Anders choked on his tea. "You should try to sleep, while it's still pleasant in here. This is going to keep on for hours, yet, and if you can sleep through it, you'll be better for it. I'll wake you up if you look like you need it."

"Waking up to your face, because that's an improvement."

"You weren't complaining, last month."

"I wasn't _hallucinating_ last month."

"I'll give you that." Finishing the tea, Anders set the cup aside. "Still, you should sleep while you're still likely to have good dreams. I'll try to keep my feet off you."

"Good," Fenris mumbled, the will to keep himself awake draining out of him. "You do that."

Anders watched Fenris sleep, for a few hours, soothing him, when he started to panic in his sleep, with a well-placed hand and some surprisingly on-key lullabies in a language Fenris didn't speak. Eventually, he drifted off in the chair, half expecting to wake when Fenris tried to sneak out, later.


	4. Afterthoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders is tired. Hawke's a dick. Fenris is not thrilled with any of this.

Anders swore he'd just finally closed his eyes, when the door smacked open, and the room filled with Hawke's voice. 

"Rise and shine, o you divine creature, light of my life!"

Fenris hauled the blanket over his head, with a loud groan, trying to remain as unconscious as possible.

Dragging himself to his feet, Anders stumbled into the front room, trailing the blanket still draped over his shoulders. "Hawke. Hawke, I love you, but shut up. Right now," he hissed. "I have been up all fucking night dealing with some critical shit, and I am _not done yet_. I've barely had a nap in two and a half days, and then I walked into this, last night, on my way to bed."

"Not done yet?" Hawke looked around. "I don't see-- Oh, in _your bed_. That kind of critical, is it?"

And that was when Anders lost it, the fade-glow crackling around his fist as it closed in the front of Hawke's robe, hauling the other mage off the floor. "Isabela. So, don't you start with me about that shit," Anders hissed, with the last breath that was his own.

"YOU WILL GO, NOW," Justice boomed. "THE ANGRY ELF IS ILL, AND THIS IS SOMEHOW YOUR FAULT."

"What, Fenris? I haven't seen Fenris in _days_! What are you talking about? Put me down!" Hawke argued, quietly. If that was Fenris, Anders was right, he shouldn't be making cracks about that. Justice was probably the better end of any thumping he might get for a gibe like that.

"WE HAVE NOT SLEPT BECAUSE OF THE ANGRY ELF, WHICH IS NOW ALSO YOUR FAULT."

And then there were suddenly more hands than parties present should have, as a translucent glowing blue one sprung from Justice's abdomen and spread up across his chest. A quiet, soothing sound issued from somewhere behind Justice.

With Justice distracted, Anders regained his wits and promptly lost the benefits of Justice's strength and control, dropping Hawke on the floor, without warning. Fenris leaned out from behind Anders at the sudden thumping and cursing.

"You can thank me later, Hawke," Fenris encouraged, retrieving his hand and catching Anders as the mage slumped, exhausted and way past his limits. "But, right now, you're going to help me put the healer in bed."

"How is any of this my fault?" Hawke demanded, getting up and taking Anders's legs with him.

"I tried to clean the foyer, because of your years of incessant whining. It was trapped." That was sufficiently vague, Fenris thought. "I was poisoned. I came here."

"You _cleaned?_ " Hawke teased, obviously ready to bring the whole of his wit to bear on the subject.

"I know where Anders keeps his keys. I know where you sleep. I don't think I would pursue the subject, if I were you. There are far worse things than death." Fenris peeled back the rumpled blanket with his foot, before they deposited Anders on the bed.

Fenris stepped back and let Hawke tuck Anders in. "Stay with him, Hawke. Make sure he sleeps. And get him a warmer blanket, you cad, it's freezing in here."

"He hasn't bought himself a better blanket, and _I'm_ the cad?" Hawke shot back.

"He doesn't think of himself, and you know it." Fenris glared as if he meant to cut a hole in Hawke with his eyes. Hawk, of all people, should have known better, should have _been_ better.

"You're starting to sound like you care."

"He just finished saving my life. Don't get used to it." It was a bit of an exaggeration, but the drama would serve his purposes much more cleanly. "When he wakes up, tell him I'm fine, and I've gone home to sleep. And if he's going to come barging in to check on me, like I know he will, not to wake me up."

"I was going to take the two of you up Sundermount with me, this afternoon--" Hawke started.

Fenris grabbed his cloak and shot one more glare at Hawke. "He needs to sleep. I need to sleep. Take the blood mage and your idiot brother with you."

Stomping off didn't work well, without boots, Fenris had noticed, so he shut the door of the clinic forcefully after himself -- just loud enough for Hawke to have no mistake about it, but hopefully not loud enough to wake the abomination. He swung the cloak over his shoulders, lifting the hood to cover his ears, before he set out back toward Hightown. There was no sense in inviting a fight, down here, after a night like that. Strangely, he didn't want to go. Or, more to the point, he wanted to take Anders with him. He owed the mage that, at least -- a long morning in a huge, thick, soft bed, with piles of ratty old down blankets. Something better than a few hours in a tiny, lumpy bed _with Hawke_.

They'd been dating for years, now, and Fenris had always figured there must be some amazing secret side of Hawke that only Anders knew, because there was no way anyone would spend more than a night in Hawke's company otherwise. _Says the man who has been following him through the Marches for six years..._ But, no, they were mages, both, and they had some strange and totally foreign ways with each other. Some secret language only they spoke. He didn't understand, and he wouldn't ask. Mages. Whatever.

But, he'd go and buy a bed, once he'd finished sleeping off the last bit of skittering in the corners of his vision. He'd buy the best bed that could be made to fit in that damp, little room, and a fine warm blanket. He'd made a fool of himself, and he'd be left owing nothing for the privilege of so doing.

In the bright light of morning, Fenris ducked through a few alleys and under a fence, before letting himself back in through a window. He'd take the crates of bones and filth out, after he slept. This would never be the world he wanted, but just maybe, it could be better than this reeking heap of mushrooms and decay.


End file.
